


The Boy with Ashes for a Name

by thetasteofsunshine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Cinderella (2015) Elements, Cinderella AU, F/M, M/M, also the town names are sorta important and i promise ill tell you, i came up with this because cinderellas mom got sick too im soRRY, strangers to Lovers (I guess? Wow thats every disney princess story wOW)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-09-19 09:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20329150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetasteofsunshine/pseuds/thetasteofsunshine
Summary: Scorpius Malfoy was raised to be Kind and to have Courage, above all else that he had been taught. But when his mother dies tragically and his father remarries, his Kindness is used as a weapon against him, and he's not sure that he can face the challenges put in his way.That is until he meets a spellbinding young man with bright eyes and dark hair, and things start looking up in ways that he could never imagine.





	1. Prologue

In the faraway kingdom of Euphoria, which sat across the sea from the town of Noctem and just a few vast hills away from the kingdom of Papilionem, was where a beautiful townhouse was built. It had three floors and a basement, its beautiful wealth boasted unabashedly. Tall chandeliers, expensive fabrics, and rich foods were not strangers to such a house. Rose trellises climbed up the building on most sides and a vast garden allowed the owners to have practically a feast every night.

The proprietors were the nicest of people, allowing the gardener and the cook and the rest of the staff to dine with them, for they were only two people and there was no need to waste all of this food and have their housekeepers eat only their measly scraps. And when the gardener’s father fell ill, they gave him a large sum of money, more than enough to pay the doctor and for all of the medicines, and asked him to tell his father to get better soon.

And maybe one wouldn’t need to know such simple things, but it is incredibly important for one to know that when the Husband and Wife became the Husband and Wife and Son, they raised him in that same way, to be Humble and Generous and Caring. But, above all, they taught him to be Kind, for Kindness, they would always tell him, was the Greatest Strength to ever have.

But, when Good Things become too Good, Tragedy always strikes like the stinging blade of Heartache’s unyielding sword that never seems to miss its mark.

The beautiful wife, by the elegant name of Astoria, fell ill just a few months before her lovely son’s thirteenth birthday.

On the day in which he turned thirteen, the air was mild and the wind began picking up like it always did in typical September fashion. The small family ate bits of cake and they had opened the curtains to admire the few leaves that found themselves loose from the trees prematurely and swirling dizzyingly in the wind. The son read aloud to his mother and father from the new book he had gotten, a clear voice bringing to life a story of love and fairies and enchantments. He did voices for each character, and his impression of a haughty king made his parents laugh and laugh, and the joy continued until the doctor arrived with the medicines that made his mother tired, so with a hug and a kiss, he was sent to bed soon after.

What the son didn’t know was that the doctor told the sad couple that everything in his power that he had done was not enough and that she had but just a few weeks left of living.

They decided not to mourn as she lived, and so they celebrated life together while they still both had the gift to.

In late September, exactly two weeks after her son’s birthday, Astoria called for her son to come to her room, for she had become so sick that she could no longer leave her bed.

“What is it, Mother?” the young boy asked, kneeling by her bedside so they could be at eye level with each other.

“I will be leaving soon,” she started, “and I need you to know these things before I go.”

Her son leaned closer. He hadn't been raised a fool, and his parents had never thought to keep any sort of knowledge away from him, no matter how dark. Nevertheless, though his voice was steady as he spoke, there were unshed tears in his eyes. “I know, Mother. Tell me, what is it?”

“I want to tell you a secret, one that will see you through the trials of life, a secret that will aide you once I am in the past. _ Have Courage and be Kind_. Scorpius, you have more Kindness in your little finger than most people possess in their whole body.” She clasped the hand that he had set on the bed and wiggled his little finger, causing them both to laugh, although it had a blanket of sorrow dampening it like a wet sheep’s wool. "And it has more power than you know. Where there is Kindness, there is goodness. And where there is Goodness—” she looked into his eyes, silvery grey like his father’s, shining like liquid mercury in the candlelight “—there is _ Magic _.”

And that night, she knew that it was _the _night, her last night, so she kissed her husband goodnight and goodbye, and she fell asleep and didn’t wake again.

The funeral was simple. Her husband found it unfair, knowing that she deserved the grandest event fit for a queen with processions in the streets, entire countries in mourning, instead of a quiet affair in a backyard, the early Autumn air bringing a chill that he couldn’t get out of his bones no matter how hard he had tried.

Winter came and winter left, leaving with it the sadness weighing down the small family that had become smaller.

Years passed, and pain turned to bittersweet memory. Astoria’s grave was behind the house and behind the gardens, surrounded by blooming flowers in the spring and summer, and the husband and son would visit her nearly every day.

And as the seasons changed and the days went by, the father found that he no longer had a boy but a young man as his son and he hoped that somewhere in the place where all go after the Trials of Life, Astoria was happy with the way that Draco was raising their son without her.

Although he was usually away from home, as he made his trade by being a merchant, he heard many great things about his son, from his tutors, the housekeepers, and even the citizens of the main city just a little over a mile down the road. These compliments were always accompanied by a quiet sort of awe as if wondering how someone could be so kind after so much tragedy. Even Draco, after long days with hardly anything sold, could lose his temper, and he was always surprised at how genuinely Good his son could be.


	2. I - Happiness in the Wrong Places

Five years after his wife had passed on, the father found himself home from his travels and sitting in the drawing-room, listening to his son read aloud a rather good story, with paper knights and red queens. Once Scorpius had finished the chapter he was reading, his father interrupted him with something he had been thinking over for quite a while, something he found rather daunting but overall good (but not yet Good, not like Astoria).

Scorpius, I know that nothing will ever replace our Astoria but… but I feel that it may be time to turn over to a new chapter in our lives.”

“Indeed, Father?” Scorpius responded with a quizzical tilt of his head and the tapping of his fingers on the cover of the recently closed book (this wasn’t a sign of the dreadsome Anxiety, but of simply a harmless repetitive habit).

“You recall that in my travels I made the acquaintance of Sir Blaise Zabini?” Draco inquired, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Yes,” Scorpius smiled. “He’s the one with that great library that you spoke of?”

“ _ Was _ . The poor man has died.” Scorpius gasped, but his father pressed on. “His wife was left alone, still in the prime of her life, and…” he trailed off, his gaze sliding from his son’s face to the window behind him, although Scorpius knew that he wasn’t seeing the back garden, his eyes as distant as the ocean.

“If you’re asking my permission to remarry to her, my answer is yes if it makes you happy.”

“I—yes, yes. Happiness.” Draco smiled, his mind dwelling on the word whose definition had dulled significantly in passing years.. ‘Do you think… do you think I may be allowed such a chance? A second try on… Happiness?”

Scorpius nodded almost immediately. “Why of course father, why ever would one deny such a thing?”

Draco stood up and pulled his son into a tight hug, which was quite foreign to him. “And she’ll be your stepmother,” he continued to say. ”And you’ll have two wonderful stepsisters. You’ll have siblings!”

Scorpius beamed, as he’d never had the possibility of friends, and although eighteen was rather later than most of every sibling, he didn’t very much mind.

Soon enough, the day arrived when his new family members arrived in a darkly gilded horse-drawn carriage. Scorpius stood next to his father in the front entrance of their house, the double doors having been thrown open to allow the warm summer air and the occasional mouse friend to seek refuge in the familiar and friendly rooms.

They stepped together down the paved walkway as the two quite loud girls, in both their voices and their outfits, clambered out of the carriage door at the same time.

“Get out of my way, you bimbo!”

‘I want to get out first, I deserve a grand entrance!”

“I’m older, Portia!”

“By half an hour, let me—”

And, with a rather extended period of shuffling and swearing, the two girls found themselves standing on the ground, albeit rather rumpled. They had on gaudy dresses on, and their hair, slightly different from each other in both color and style, were even gaudier, piled on top of their heads in great curls and ringlets. They were rather reminiscent of birds’ nests, in Scorpius’s opinion, but he wouldn’t ever say such a thing aloud.

“Is that him?” loudly whispered the one in pink.

Scorpius pretended that he couldn’t hear them as the one in yellow (usually such a cheery color, but this shade was so bright that it was simply nauseating) whispered just as loudly, “He’s so skinny, do you think he’s wearing a corset?”

They dissolved into mad giggles as their mother stepped from the carriage. Contrary to her flashy daughters, she was dressed in black and dark red and she had a broad black hat adorning her modest hairstyle. She too had known grief, but she wore it like a crown atop her head, something flashy to show others that they should respect her.

She had shining hair the color of dry dirt, and the son daren’t say so in an entire lifetime, but she was rather pug-faced, her features neither attractive nor unattractive in any sort of evident way. She sniffed almost haughtily, which was rather contradictory to the smile on her face as she hugged her new husband.

“These are my two lovely twins,” she said as she pulled away, motioning to the two girls standing more or less with perfect postures, “Cassiopeia and Portia.” The girls in pink and yellow waved lightly when their names were said respectively.

“How lovely indeed,” the husband replied with a smile before motioning to the open doors of the house. “Shall I give you a tour?”

As he led the girls through the many rooms of the house, the stepson found that his new siblings seemed quite rude, even more so than their comments outside.

“That painting looks like a three-year-old made it.”

“Is this the dining room? It seems to be more of a closet.”

“Are we expected to go outside? Because that looks like an actual pigsty.”

He also found their giggling that always followed these comments was rather irksome, but he would never be one to discourage joy, even if it came through inconvenient ways.

“And what about you? What’s got you so quiet?” the stepson started as he realized that his stepmother was talking to him.

“Oh pardon me, Stepmother. I’m generally quieter around new people.”

The stepson was surprised when all of the women suddenly started laughing, simply guffawing, and he sent his father a confused glance and was sent back an equally puzzled expression.

“Oh, you never said your son was so charming,” the stepmother exclaimed in a modest sort of flattery.

His father beamed with pride as he said, “yes, he gets it from his—” He cut himself off abruptly.

“From his mother?” she asked dismissively, although there was something in her voice that sounded as cold as the blade of a knife.

“I—yes.”

The lady said nothing but a discontented “Mmh,” and turned to admire a wooden carving with a stare icier than necessary for just a pine milkmaid.

Over the next few weeks, the stepson and father were subjected to a much more different lifestyle than they were used to. The lady was a very sociable woman, and she hosted many parties with much drinking and gambling with cards and chips, with guests staying until the hours of the morning that were usually only devoted to sleep.

One such night, the stepson excused himself from the boisterous room full of slightly drunken laughter to find his father, who was in his office, examining a large spread of papers on his desk.

“You’re missing the party,” he commented, and his father looked up from the parchment in his hand and smiled at his son as he lowered his reading glasses.

“Never really was my sort of thing, parties,” Draco admitted. “And anyway, I’m leaving first thing in the morning and I need to finish some things up.”

Scorpius’s face fell. “Already? But you just got back from your last trip.” He admitted that he sounded a tad bit whiny, but he always missed his father terribly when all he had for company were his stepmother and stepsisters.

“I know, Scorpius, but it’ll only be for a few weeks.”

“A few weeks?” Scorpius echoed dismally.

“Or a few months.” His son’s shoulders drooped, and Draco stood up to rest his hands on his son’s shoulders reassuringly. He was almost taller than his father. “Look, I’ll get you something while I’m away, okay? Your sisters—stepsisters, that is—have asked for parasols and lace. What shall I get for you?”

Scorpius thought for a long moment before speaking. “I want you to bring me… the first branch of a flowering tree that brushes your shoulder during your travels.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “You want… a tree branch with flowers on it?”

“Yes,” Scorpius said plainly. “So when you look at it during the weeks you’re gone, you’ll think of me. And when you’re gone again, I’ll see it and think of you.”

Draco’s smile was sad and almost wistful. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m related to you.”

“I look just like you, Father.”

“But you are so like your mother.”

Meanwhile, the lady of the house had downed another drink almost regally and went to look for what one would call her husband, and she stopped outside his office doors upon seeing him already talking to his son, and she overheard these words.

“I miss her terribly, Father,” Scorpius admitted, his eyes suddenly glassier than they were moments before, and his father pulled him into a hug.

“I do too. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her. Hardly even an  _ hour _ can go by.”

“Even after so many years, you still love her dearly? Even after remarrying?”

“Always, Scorpius. Someday you’ll understand the beauty of Love and its magnitude. Your mother would have used words like Power and Magic. And really, I think that there is Magic in anything Good, simply because Love is there.”

“I dearly hope so, Father.”

The lady, eavesdropping from outside, sneered and returned to her party, snapping at more people than usual and drank two more glasses of strong liquor than she needed to.


	3. II - The Descent into Servitude

The next morning found the stepsisters waving halfheartedly as the stepfather’s carriage was on the cusp of leaving, their mother, ever the lady, standing behind them with a pensive look on her face. The son was saying his goodbyes and hugging his father tightly.

Moments later, the wheels started moving, and the father was off.

“Don’t forget my parasol!” Cassiopeia called.

“And my lace,” Portia added. “It’ll do wonders for my complexion. That means skin if you didn’t already know.”

Cassiopeia smacked her sister in the arm as Scorpius took off running after the carriage, as if he caught up to it, maybe his father wouldn’t have to go and leave him alone again.

“Goodbye!” he called as he stepped in the lane, breathing heavily and waving all the while.

“Goodbye, Scorpius!” Draco called back, the distance between them growing with each steady clop of the horses’ hooves. “I love you!”

“I love you, too,” Scorpius called back, although he didn’t know if his father heard him as the carriage picked up speed.

Scorpius stood, long after the stepmother and stepsisters disappeared inside, and long after the carriage disappeared down the long road as if maybe his father would realize he’d made a mistake and came back. Even after so long, his leaving never seemed to get any easier. He felt tears trace their path down his cheeks, but he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

When he returned inside nearly an hour later and wiping his face, he was surprised when his stepmother called him into the sitting room. He was even more surprised when she opened her arms, a sad look in her eyes. He then chided himself over thinking that he was the only one struggling at times like these.

Her hug was an almost motherly thing, but something in it was strange, alien. “Come now, we mustn't blub.”

“Yes, Stepmother.”

“You needn’t call me that.” She pulled away and gently lifted his chin. “ _ Madame _ will do.”

He hardly had any time to process the formal tone of address that he was to use when the stepsisters suddenly stormed by, Portia clutching one of her many lurid dresses and Cassiopeia brandishing a hanger at her in a threatening fashion. They continued to argue as they wandered upstairs, and the lady spoke as their voices got fainter.

“My girls, they’ve always shared a room,” she explained. “It seems that they still haven’t gotten used to the significantly smaller bedroom they’ve had since we moved here.”

“Well, my bedroom’s the largest after your’s and Father’s,” the stepson reasoned. “They could always take mine and I could sleep in the sp—”

“The  _ attic _ !” the lady finished.

“The—the attic?” he blinked in confusion. “But we have a guest bedroom, I don’t see why I—”

“Oh, it’ll only be temporarily,” the lady promised.”You can move into one of the guest rooms after I’m done redecorating. It will be a temporary living space. You should go up there now and get everything sorted.” The stepson stood up and nodded, still wondering how this conversation had occurred in the way that it did. “Oh, and before I forget, you should take all of this brick-a-brack up there with you, I have no use for it down here.” She handed him a tray that held all of his mother’s trinkets that had found themselves on bookshelves and side tables over the years. Even her bobbins and old sewing projects, which he knew used to be in the closet of his father’s room, was sitting there.

He walked out of the room, up the stairs and down the hall to the door at the very end that was opened only a few times in his lifetime. The door creaked as he opened it.

A spiraling flight of stairs led up to the attic, and Scorpius’s legs were aching slightly as he opened the door at the top. This one creaked even more than the one below, and upon looking inside he wished he had brought the feather duster.

Spiderwebs were lingering near the coned ceiling meters above, their occupants long since died. There were old trunks piled up against the walls and the only seating in the room was an overturned chair with three legs and a lounge that was missing all of its cushions.

Nevertheless, Scorpius got to work, first righting the chair to find the family of mice that he knew wandered the house eating bits of cheese and bread in the shadows. They immediately scampered away until they saw that it was only Scorpius, for even the animals knew of his kindness.

He supposed it was them that he was talking to as he found an old cloth and began using it to get the dust off the couch. “Well, I suppose there are many upsides to sleeping in an attic. Such as sharing a room with you lovely folk.” one of the mice chittered in response. “What’s it like, sharing a room?” he asked the family. “Is it nice?”

Meanwhile, the stepsisters had paused their arguing as they ran down the hallway upon hearing their stepbrother from the open door at the bottom of the stairs.

"Who’s he talking to?” wondered Cassiopeia, her face twisted into that of disdainful curiosity.

“Yes maybe it is a gift being up here,” Scorpius mused from the attic above as he sat down the tray of his mother’s things. “There are no hungry birds,  _ and _ there are no stepsisters.” he walked over and shut the door, absentmindedly wondering where he could find the oil at the village to stop the hinges from squeaking.

“He’s—he’s mental,” Cassiopeia laughed derisively from the bottom of the stairs. “Insane.”

“I can’t believe we have a half-wit for a sibling,” Portia said disbelievingly.

Cassiopeia glanced at her sister and, before turning and walking away, said, “I’ve got two.” Portia scowled before shutting the door and following her.

Weeks went by. The stepsister, somehow, only seemed to get worse. With their constant bickering over meaningless things and the lady doing nothing to discourage them, the only exciting thing was his father’s letters that arrived every week. On one such day in late August, he opened the front door more delighted than usual, wondering if his father would send his birthday present this week or the next (he had hinted about it in the previous letter).

But instead of the postman, Mr. Goyle stood on the front step. Scorpius knew that he was a part of his father’s traveling party, but he didn’t know what would entail for him to be there.

“Mr. Goyle, what brings you here?” he asked. He was vaguely aware of the lady and her daughters listening in on the conversation.

“It’s your father, sir.” The man removed his hat. His hands were shaking slightly. “He—there was an attack. Robbers, we think. In the night. We woke up to all of our wares gone. And—and your father, he’s—he’s missing. We think—we think he may have passed on, sir.” Scorpius felt numb, but he was aware that Mr. Goyle spoke again. “To the end, even that night, he spoke only of you, sir. And your mother. He wanted to give you this.” the man handed the son  a branch that still had dried leaves and flowers on it.

“But what about my lace?” Portia wondered.

“And my parasol?” Cassiopeia followed with.

“Can’t you see, none of that matters,” the lady chided her daughters. The stepson turned to look at her, wondering if she too, felt like a piece of her had fallen off, never to be found again. And then she continued. “We’re ruined! How will we live with no income?” She ran upstairs, and the stepson turned, shocked, to Mr. Goyle, who was still standing sadly in the dark.

“Thank you for telling me,” he told the man. “I know you were close friends.”

Mr. Goyle smiled sadly and donned his hat. “You truly are the kindest.”

“Thank you, Mr. Goyle.” the stepson watched the man turn and walk slowly back to his carriage before closing the door, turning around, sinking slowly to the floor, and weeping softly, gently clutching the last gift he was sure his father would ever give him.

The next day, the lady dismissed the staff, for they had no means to get paid, she explained. Scorpius hugged goodbye to the people that he knew so well. Gilda the cook, who had shown him the correct way to crimp pie crusts when he was barely tall enough to reach the countertops. Charles the gardener and farmhand, who had carried six-year-old Scorpius back to the house when he twisted his ankle falling off of a pile of hay bales. Even Hattie the maid, only a few years older than Scorpius, who had taught him how to dance when he was twelve.

Madame Zabini (she had never taken the last name Malfoy for reasons unknown to her stepson) had three fine taffeta mourning gowns made for her and her daughters, and for Scorpius, she gave him a long list of chores that needed to be done in the wake of the help’s leave.

Without them, it was up to the stepson to take up all of the chores, making meals, shining shoes, washing and hanging up laundry, and caring for all of the plants and animals. It was to distract him from his grief, his stepmother claimed. And maybe it did, but no amount of exhausting work would stop him from finding himself lying awake at night and wondering how such a strong and resilient man such as his father could have had his life snuffed out by a group of lowly thieves.

His birthday passed without any fanfare and, in fact, without any recognition at all, besides Portia trying out the piano and finding that she was rather horrid at it, and the stepson turned nineteen without even a whisper of acknowledgment from anyone but the mice that shared a room with him.

He grew used to the attic bedroom after a time, although some nights when the room grew too drafty in the cold late summer evenings to sleep comfortably, he would lay on the warm hearth and kip in front of the dying embers of the basement kitchen.

One morning after one such night, the stepson was awoken by one of the bells hungover on the far wall, the sound signaling that the lady and her daughters were expecting breakfast.

“I thought food would be on the table by now!” was the greeting that he got from the lady as he brought out the plates and cups and cutlery to set the table.

“Yes, sorry. I overslept,” the stepson explained as he hurriedly folded a napkin and set it in front of Portia, whose hair was still in the ribbons that she slept in, the ones that gave her such tight and ludicrous curls.

“What’s that on your face?” Cassiopeia asked abruptly.

“Pardon?” the boy paused as he walked back from the teacart. The other two women were also looking at his face now, and he self-consciously touched his hand to his cheek. It came back with dark smudges on it.

“It’s ash,” the lady said in amused astonishment, “from the fire.”

“Ooh, I have a new name to call you!” Portia exclaimed. “Cinder-peasant!”

“Ooh, even better, _Dirty-Boy!_” Cassiopeia added.

“Oh girls, you are clever,” the lady chuckled. The stepson tried to ignore them as he set down the sugar bowl.

“I’ve got it!” Portia exclaimed, her face twisted into that of wicked glee.” _ Cinder-Boy! _ ” The two girls guffawed.

“Wait, who’s this for?” the lady inquired, pointing at the fourth plate that he had set on the table. “Is there someone else here?”

“That’s—that’s my plate, Madam,” the stepson explained confusedly. He’d always sat there.

“Do you really think that after you cook and clean for us, you deserve to sit at a table with us?” the lady asked indignantly.

“I—” his voice died in his throat, so he gathered up all of what was now unneeded dishes and began walking back to the kitchen.

“And go make us breakfast, boy, I’m starving.”

“Yeah, go and make us breakfast, Cinder-Boy!” the girls giggled maddeningly as he walked back to the basement and tried not to cry. Never, in all of his life, had anything so disrespectful and cruel ever been said to him so outright. But, he mused, after breakfast was eaten and he was washing dishes, maybe he deserved it.

When a plate slipped out of his hands and fell on the unforgiving stone floor, shattering to pieces by his feet, he felt that he was deserving of such a disgraceful title. And he broke.

And maybe—just maybe—it could have been seen as a good thing that the harsh stepmother and stepsisters had ridiculed him so, for if they hadn’t, he never would have met the prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so my upload schedule is... nonexistent, so expect the next chapter at some time in the immediate future (at some point next week). But if you would like to, please comment and tell me your criticisms and things that came to your mind when reading! - B. xoxo


	4. III - Meeting in a Forest Glade

Scorpius had taken the family horse, Ursa, out riding in the forested path behind the house, the one that led into the wilderness if one went far enough. The wind on his face felt freeing and with her hooves pounding against the dirt and gravel, Scorpius felt that he could fly.

Soon he was deep into the wood, where the road narrowed and the trees were taller, letting on dappled bits of sunlight through their leaves. He nearly closed his eyes in the simple pleasure of it all when Ursa suddenly reared on her hind legs and Scorpius had to grab onto the horse’s mane to avoid falling off.

When she fell back onto four legs, he saw what had frightened her. A large stag, with a mighty head and at least ten points on each of his magnificent antlers, was standing less than five meters in front of the horse and her rider.

“Aren't you beautiful,” Scorpius said, dismounting from his horse and stepping toward the wild animal. The stag seemed to preen at the compliment, holding his head higher and puffing his chest. Scorpius laughed at the stag and took a step closer. “It's a pleasant day outside, is it not?" he took another step forward, and the stag lowered his head, allowing the boy to pet his head. "Such a lovely day to wander in the woods, no?"

The stag seemed to nod, and he laughed again. He had been close with the animals that lived at his home, and he once remembered having a very interesting if not pleasant conversation with a fox when he was ten, but he had never befriended such a large and wild animal.

"It's rather freeing, I think, after such the rotten day that has become mine." Scorpius thought it would be a lovely idea to spend his afternoon wandering in the woods with his horse and his new friend.

Soon after he thought this, the sound of a gunshot pierced the still air, and his new friend took off so fast that he nearly took out Scorpius's eye with his antlers, and before Scorpius could turn around toward Ursa, she took off in the same direction as the stag.

"No, Ursa!" he cried, running after his horse. And although he was fast, he was not nearly as fast as a fully-grown horse, and he found himself alone in a clearing. "Please come back!" he called toward the direction that she and the stag had run to no avail.

"Ursa!" he cried again, maybe just to say he had tried. There was no answer. "Damn." It wasn't that he feared that she was going to get lost, for she knew her way home, but he would rather not walk back home. And there was the matter of those hunters...

Hoofbeats sounded behind him and Scorpius wheeled around to find Ursa being held in line next to another horse, this one with a tan coat and a mane the color of pitch. The rider sitting atop this horse was probably the most attractive man Scorpius had ever seen in his life.

He had lovely darkened skin, which contrasted with his deeply, impossibly green eyes. Even more starkly contrasting about him was the wild state of his dark hair with his general air of being very well kept. Scorpius wondered if he had ever tried styling it or if he had given it up as a lost cause.  


"I'm guessing this is your horse?" he asked.

"She is, indeed," Scorpius replied as he stepped up to Ursa and leaped up onto her back. When he turned to thank the gentleman he realized that their faces were rather close to each other, and he flushed and lead Ursa a little away from him.

"Are you alright?" the stranger asked, and Scorpius was surprised that he sounded like he genuinely wondered. he was wearing what Scorpius guessed was an expensive jacket, with fine golden detail sewn into the blue fabric. Scorpius felt rather plain in the loose cotton shirt and trousers of a servant that he had taken to wearing in the last few weeks, and then wondered to himself why he was concerned with something as frivolous as _fashion_.

“I’m alright, but you’ve nearly frightened the life out of  _ him _ , ” Scorpius said as his horse trotted away from the young man to the opposite side of the clearing that they were in.

“Him?” the young man was staring at him quizzically. "Him who?”

“The stag! You terrified him with your bullets and malicious intent.”

“You and the stag are… friends?” the young man seemed rather perplexed at the idea and Scorpius hadn't the faintest idea why.

"We’re acquaintances,” Scorpius explained. “We just met earlier, but our friendship was a fast thing, and I think it would be rather rude of you to ruin it by murdering him.”

The young man seemed amused by Scorpius’s demeanor. “What do they call you?” he asked after an almost confused laugh.

Scorpius hesitated to say his name, reminded of the cruel name that he had been recently christened. “Never mind what they call me.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be this deep in the forest alone,” the stranger mused, changing the subject.

“I’m not alone. I’m with you, aren’t I?” Scorpius reasoned. “Mister… what do they call you?”

“You don’t know who I am?” the young man wondered Then he must've realized that was a rather rude thing to say for he corrected himself soon after. “That is—they call me Al. or at least my father does, when he’s in a good mood.” He laughed and Scorpius couldn't help but do so as well.

“And where do you live, Mister Al?”

“I’m visiting actually. Well, not technically. But I’m staying at the palace. My father’s teaching me his trade.”

“You’re an apprentice?” Scorpius grinned.

“Of a sort,” Al admitted.

“And do they treat you well at the palace?”

“Very well, and I’d say more than I deserve,” Al told him. “Why? Do they treat you well where you stay?”

“As well as they are able.” 

“That's rather unfortunate.” Al's words were surprisingly genuine.

Scorpius shrugged. "We must simply have Courage and be Kind, mustn’t we?”

Al thought for a moment before nodding. “You’re quite right.”

A hunting horn blew, and Scorpius turned, panicked, toward his new friend. "Oh, please don’t let them hurt him!”

“We’re _hunting_,” Al reasoned. "It’s what’s done.”

“Just because it’s done doesn’t mean it’s what  _should be_ done.”

Al went quiet, and he seemed almost mystified as he said, “Right again.”

A third set of hooves sounded nearby. “Ah, there you are, your High—”

“ _ Al!  _ Al, it’s Al!” Al turned toward the newcomer, who was sitting on his horse in the garb of a royal captain.

The man seemed highly amused by this. “Well then,  _ Mister Al _ , we should be heading back to the palace soon.”

Al coughed. “Yes, of course.”

“Will I be able to see you again?” Scorpius asked Al, mentally berating himself at how hopeful he sounded.

“I hope so,” Al said and with a flick of his horse's reins, he was gone.

The next day, Al, also known officially as Prince Albus Severus Potter of the Three Ruling Kingdoms, found himself pacing back and forth in front of his parents' desk in their study.

“It’s as if you’re the only person to ever happen upon a handsome boy in a forest,” the king sighed at his son.

“He wasn’t just a ‘handsome boy’—well, he was a  _ handsome boy _ but—but there was so much  _ more  _ to him!” Albus countered. “Don't you know what I mean?” He sounded almost desperate.

“How much more, Albus?” his mother asked him from her position next to her husband, looking up from the official decree she was writing. Her son was about to argue with her, but she held up a hand, silencing him at once. “I’m not opposing what it is that you feel, but you’ve really only met him just once. How could you know anything about the fellow?”

He stopped his pacing to look at his mother with an astonished glare. “How very hypocritical of you, Mother. You told me that you knew right away when you met Dad!”

“That was different,” his father mumbled, seeming every bit uncomfortable in this situation as his son was angry.

“How so?”

“Your mother was a princess.”

“You would have loved her anyway.”

“I—well, I would never have even met her. And if I had, I’m sure my parents would have said the same thing we’re telling you now, and I would have listened.”

Albus scoffed. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“Yes, I would.”

“ _ No _ , you wouldn’t.”

“I  _ would _ !”

“You  _ wouldn’t _ .”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t!” the king admitted, defeated.

“ _ So _ , can I—” Interrupting the prince’s argument was the door to the study opening, revealing the captain of the royal guard standing in the hallway.

“You’re going to be late again,” he said.

“Goodness, is it time already?” the king turned to look for a clock.

“Yes, Your Majesty. His future Lordship and King of the Sprawling Kingdom of Euphoria shall always need to stay punctual.”

Albus turned toward his mother, who made a shooing motion toward him. "We’ll resume this conversation later,” he told her as he turned to follow his cousin down the hallway.

“Yes, I’m sure we will.”

They walked in companionable silence for a while before Al said, “I told you to stop with the sarcastically long names.” He glanced at his cousin, who seemed not at all perturbed by the comment. “I’m your future sovereign, I could have you hung.”

“How terribly malicious of you,  _ Sire _ .”

“Why thank you, I do try,” Albus replied, ignoring the name.

As they walked down the long marble hallways, he sighed, feeling an incredible bout of homesickness for a home that would shortly no longer be his. No matter how many grand ballrooms or sparkling staircases this palace had to offer, he didn’t know if this place would ever feel like home to him as the castle in up north in Papilionem did. Frederick II sighed as well, and Albus knew that he was also thinking of their childhood home that they recently had to leave behind for the duties of adulthood. How very depressing.

“You’re late,” the grand duchess chided as the prince and the captain stepped into one of the former war rooms that hadn’t been used in over two decades, the long council table pushed up against the wall to allow room for a large canvas and the uncomfortable but grand throne that Albus was to be seated in for who knows how many hours.

“Ah, there you are!” the painter exclaimed excitedly as Albus draped himself unceremoniously over the arms of the chair, which seemed significantly more comfortable than the hard wooden seat covered by only a small bit of velvet. “Wonderful, I’m just finishing up mixing my paints and then we can get started shortly.”

The painter was a funny fellow, American, and had a rather strange affinity for large hats. Albus distinctly remembered him doing a portrait of him when he was younger and kept telling him off for fidgeting.

“And you’re definitely sure that this painting will convince the royals from abroad that he might actually be attractive?” Fred asked the painter in mocking seriousness. Albus wanted to smack him.

“Oh, indeed,” the painter assured him, “although I can’t work miracles.” Albus wanted to smack him too.

After being forced to sit in the chair right and keep a stiff posture, the room was silent for a spell, with the only sound being of a brush on the canvas and the Duchess taking out a pocket watch every now and then. She spoke up as Albus felt his left pinky go numb from its position on the chair arm.

“I’m sure your father spoke to you about your behavior in the forest.”

Albus felt his face flush, thinking again of the lovely young man with the blazing eyes. “Is it any business of yours, Grand Duchess?” he asked her.

“Indeed it is Your Highness, your business is my business,” she reminded him. “You shouldn’t have let the stag go free, it is not what is done.”

Right. The stag. That’s what she was talking about. Of course. The stag.

“‘Just because something is done does not mean that it is something that is right,’” he recited proudly, his mind once again drifting back to the boy he had met. “Or something like that, at least.”

The Duchess opened her mouth to argue but was interrupted by the king and queen entering the studio.

“Make him look marriageable, Master Ollivander,” the queen urged as gracefully sat down in one of the plush spare chairs that Albus was currently quite envious of. “We must attract a suitable bride, even if he won’t listen to a word I say.”

“I shall endeavor to please, your Majesty,” the painter said from behind his canvas.

“So these portraits, they’ll really be sent abroad?” the captain asked his uncle.

“To induce the high and mighty to attend this ball you insist upon,” Albus muttered as he shifted in the hard chair, the medals and insignia on his suit jacket clinking softly against each other.

“As tradition states,” the grand duchess reminded him. “It is a beloved ceremony, one in which you shall choose a  _ bride _ .”

So maybe she  _ had _ heard of the boy in the forest. Damn it all.

Most obviously, Albus’s close family and officers had known of his…  _ favoritism _ , as they called it, toward the youths of the same gender rather than what they called the opposite. This was mainly because his brother had found him in a state of undress with the young Romanian ambassador three years previously and he wouldn’t let him live it down.

“Fascinating,” Albus mumbled, rolling his eyes in a way that Fred only saw, who chuckled lightly.

“We are a small kingdom amongst many great states, need I remind you?” the duchess admonished. “If any of those nations were to decide to war with us, we would be powerless to stop them, which is why marriage alliances are vital to our survival.”

“But why must we—”

“Albus.” He glanced at his father, whose expression was unreadable. “I want to see you and the kingdom  _ safe _ . It’s all that I’ve wanted.”

Albus sighed heavily, but he set his jaw and looked straight at his father. “Fine. But on only one condition: send the ball invitations to everyone in Euphoria, not just the foreign nobility.”

The duchess sighed, but said nonetheless, “Done,” as she hurried from the room to carry out her deed.

“Ooh, that sounds  _ wonderful _ !” the painter said. “I mean, it’s not in my jurisdiction, but a ball would be really—”

“Nobody asked for your opinion,” the queen reprimanded.

“Right, sorry. Back to my brush.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My birthday's tomorrow, so I'm celebrating early by giving a gift to all of my lovely readers! (wow that was so fucking cheesy im sorry)


	5. IV - Royal Announcement

“You don’t look well, Sir,” Hattie commented as she walked along with Scorpius down the road filled with market stalls. She was now working for another family, the Nott’s, who lived in a sprawling townhouse not far from where they were strolling now, near the city center. “Not at all.”

And, Scorpius had to admit, she was quite right. There were darkened half-moons underneath his eyes from a lack of sleep, his shirt had a seam coming undone on the sleeve and there were multiple tears at the bottom of his trousers, and his hair was longer and more unkempt than usual from running his hands through it so very often.

He really hadn’t planned on having his appearance be in such disarray, but the lady and her daughters took up a very large portion of his time that he had hardly enough to call his.

“Yes, well—”

“_ Hear ye, Hear ye _!” the royal announcer stood on the parapet marking the town square. It wasn’t unusual for the announcer to be in the town square, but the times that he did arrive were few and far between. He’d been last heard announcing the prince’s arrival a few months ago, but nobody had seen the future sovereign yet.

Chatting voices and stall owners hawking wares quieted down, and Scorpius followed Hattie as she walked closer to the square. The royal announcer began reading off of an official-looking scroll held tight in his hands. He was flanked by two palace guards. “‘Let it be known that in two weeks hence, there shall be a ball held at the royal palace. At the said ball, as per ancient customs, the prince shall choose—” he paused for a dramatic effect “—a _ bride _.”

Whispers rang out through the crowd, and Hattie leaned over to Scorpius and murmured, “A bride? Doesn’t that mean that the prince shall be king soon?” Scorpius shrugged. He was not very caught up in the politics of the kingdom.

“‘And, at the insistence of the prince, any man or woman in the kingdom wishing to attend, be they noble or commoner, unmarried or married, widowed or a widower, hereby has an invitation to attend the ball. Such is the command of our most gracious and noble king.’”

Whispers turned into talking, which turned into cries of glee as the news spread, as the words said were processed. There was to be a ball for the people held at the royal palace, one in which the prince was to find a suitable bride. _ A commoner could become a queen _.

When the Cinder-Boy had told the lady and her daughters, they rejoiced, the girls positively screaming about being a princess and Lady Zabini going on about royalty. Scorpius personally thought that a country ruled by his stepmother would be a horrible place to live, but he told nobody but the hens as he collected their eggs.

But Scorpius didn’t care for a prince or even a ball. He thought only of the young apprentice who was so enraptured with him, something so rare that he found it extremely attractive. He knew indeed that the young man would not have a mutual feeling of romanticism, but it didn’t stop Scorpius from daydreaming of companionable walks through gardens in the shadow of an imagined castle (for he had never seen the Euphorian Palace, as very few people of the town had actually been on the grounds). Nevertheless, Scorpius would very much like to see Al again, if only for his welcoming company.

“You’re in a daze,” Fred acknowledged as his practice sword found its point aimed directly at Albus’s chest for the fourth time that day. He was usually able to give the captain a good workout as they parried in the empty practice room, but once again, Albus found his sword clattering to the ground.

“I would have killed you four times over today,” Fred reminded him as he retrieved a towel for himself and the prince.

“Which would have you be hanged for assassination.”

“You’re no fun.” He wiped his sweat-soaked neck and face with his towel, ruffling his hair in the process. “What’s got you so distracted?”

“It’s…” Albus looked down at his feet, scuffing his boot against the floor. “It’s nothing.”

“So you’re definitely not still daydreaming about your forest fairy, are you?”

“Don't _ call him _ that, you ass!” Albus hit him with his towel. “And for your information, he didn’t _ live _ in the forest.”

“I worked that out for myself, funnily enough. Why are you so hung up on that boy, anyway? Many other men would love to sleep with you for a pretty pence, I can assure you.”

“I could care less about his physical body,” Albus chided his cousin, who raised his eyebrows. “Well, less than usual. But he was so kind, so _ good _… I want to hear him speak again. He had so many lovely words...” He trailed off as he saw the amused expression on Fred’s face.

“You suppose he has a sister?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him.”

Fred shrugged. “Maybe he’ll come to your ball. That’s the only reason you allowed the citizens in, yes?”

“It was for the benefit of the people,” he said pointedly, but the hopeful smirk on his lips ruined the image.

“Ah, how shallow of me!” he put his hand on his chest dramatically. “But really, if he does come? Will you woo him and get married at dawn?”

“Ha!”

“Ha? A prince may take any he chooses.”

Albus laughed humorlessly. “How very bold of you to assume that I have a choice in whom I marry. And no doubt it’ll be some foreign _ princess _ who allows our kingdom to have some extravagant armada or something.”

“Well, if your country boy really is as charming as you claim, your father might just change his mind.”

Although he knew it was just a ploy to get him to cheer up, Albus felt his shoulder relax, and he picked up his sword with a smile.

“Care for a rematch? All or nothing?”

“That isn’t fair,” Fred acknowledged, but he picked up his sword and got into position nonetheless. “I’ll accept my fifth consecutive win with nothing less than a fanfare declaring my victory.”


	6. V - Anticipation and Cruelty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi please read this before you proceed to the chapter: !!!!
> 
> This chapter has a trigger warning for mentions of not eating as well as the q slur, so if either of those are triggering to you, just be safe and aware (and also know that you're valid and valued for being you)!

The morning of the day of the ball found the Cinder-Boy styling the hair of the two daughters, rolling their hair tightly around pins into what would be towering curls on their heads. They could very well have done this by themselves, but their mother claimed that the Cinder-Boy had nimbler fingers, whatever that had meant. The girls were absentmindedly gossipping about how grand the palace would be.

"I heard that they polished the floors, made of marble of _course_, until you could use it as a mirror," Portia was saying.

"Oh, that's nothing," Cassiopeia assured her sister. "_I_ heard that the chandeliers in the ballroom are the size of elephants and it takes a team of twenty men to lift one!"

After the hours spent on their hair, the girls went to go apply their rouges and powders and dyes to their faces, leaving the Cinder-Boy time to feed the animals and collect the eggs from the hens. He absentmindedly hummed to himself, swinging his basket along as the wind pulled at his clothes and the overcast sky sent down a weak light that turned his blond hair into a washed-out grey.

_ Really_, he thought as he prepared their lunch, _ I never thought getting ready for something as simple as dancing would take such copious amounts of preparation._

The girls ate quickly and hurried back to their room as the Cinder-Boy washed the dishes and went about with the afternoon chores. The lady stopped him as he was bringing in the dried laundry to be folded.

“Cinder-Boy, once you’re done with that, go upstairs and help the girls with their corsets, they can't make them tight enough on their own.”

He stopped walking and turned to look at her with a scandalized expression. “I shan’t do that, madam!”

“And why ever not?" she challenged, raising her eyebrows indignantly. "And don’t say it’s indecent, everyone in this house already knows you’re a queer.” She smiled wickedly as he turned away down into the basement.

_ Not even going to deny it, are you? _He asked himself, although he knew it was no use. He never was good at lying, and he was in no way ashamed of his attraction toward the same gender. But what had affected him the most was how it had been thrown back at him like the lady had done, in a disgusted sort of way, like it was a shameful thing. As if it were a shameful thing to simply love! He had never heard such a ridiculous thing.

Nevertheless, he found himself stepping into the girls’ room, and he realized that this was the first time that he had seen the room since he had been moved out of it.

It was a mess. There were piles of dresses covering the floor and shoes had found their way in all places around the room. The vanity had stacks of different makeups obscuring the surface and their beds looked more like dens.

Nevertheless, it didn’t stop the sisters from frolicking around and giggling like hyenas in just their undershirts and corsets and pantaloons.

“You want me to be your queen?” Cassiopeia asked her reflection in her hand mirror as she added a bright powder to her eyelids. “How could I refuse?”

“Make it tighter, I want my waist to look thinner than a broomstick,” Portia ordered as she stood in front of the full-length mirror propped up in front of the Cinder-Boy’s old bookshelf, a thin layer of dust over the linen spines. Scorpius did not deign to say that the corset looked right tight enough, but he still followed her orders.“Tighter!” she urged, her breath held in her chest to keep it away from inflating her stomach. The laces were pulled tighter, cinching her organs to a damaging degree. “Ah, that’s it!”

“You look simply ravishing, dear sister,” Cassiopeia commented as she stepped into her cage crinoline and had the Cinder-Boy tie it to her waist snugly.

“Likewise,” Portia responded as she tied on her own crinoline. “But we must compete for the prince’s hand, and it would not do to let us harbor dark thoughts against each other.”

“Yes, I would never dream of poisoning you before we leave.”

“Nor I, of pushing you from the moving carriage.”

“Or I, of dashing your brains out of the palace steps as we arrive.”

“We are sisters after all.”

“And blood is so much _ thicker _ than water.”

“We shall let the prince decide.”

“I wonder what he’s like?” the Cinder-Boy wondered aloud as he retrieved their shoes.

“What does it matter?” Cassiopeia asked. “He’s rich beyond reason.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know what he’s like before you _ marry _him?”

“Oh, certainly not!” Portia cried. “It might change my mind.”

“I bet that you have never _ ever _ met a real gentleman, have you Cinders?”

“I have,” the Cinder-Boy said, a strange need to prove himself and the existence of Al. “He was a gentleman.”

“Oh, some ‘prentice, no doubt.”

“He was an apprentice, yes.”

“Mummy says all men are fools, the sooner you learn that, the better,” Portia explained as she picked up a cheap tiara and went to set it on her head.

“No, _ I _ want to wear it,” Cassiopeia whined as she made a mad grab for the tiara as Portia went to take it out of her reach. The end resulted in the tiara breaking in two, and as the sisters dissolved into accusatory screams, the Cinder-Boy managed to slip out of the room unnoticed.

  


Later that evening, as the sun set and excitement felt tangible in the air, the lady descended the stairs to the foyer in a lurid green dress to find her daughters crowded around the same window, looking outside to see if they could spy the carriage that would arrive soon.

“How lovely you are!” she told them, her eyes watering. “And to think, how I have two horses in the race. One of you must have a chance to snare the prince with looks like yours!”

“Do you really think so, Mummy?”

“Oh, I know—Cinder-Boy?”

“Don’t worry madam, it cost you nothing,” the Cinder-Boy assured her as he stepped down the stairs in his father’s old suit, tailored to fit him (as he was less stocky than his father was, and he had been working on it in the limited free time that he had).

“Do you really think that you’ll be going with us?” the lady scoffed.

Cassiopeia snorted and muttered to her sister, “That’s rather ambitious of him.” Portia sniggered.

“But all of the citizens of Euphoria are invited,” he reminded them, squaring his shoulders. “By order of the king.”

Madam Zabini looked around the room. “Well, I don’t see him here. As long as you live under my roof, you will serve under my rules. And besides that fact, how disgraceful would it be for us to be seen prancing around with some ragged servant boy?”

The Cinder-Boy was rather affronted as his stepsisters guffawed. “I don’t think—”

“I mean, look at the state of your suit!”

“This was my father’s.”

“Well, and not to insult your dear departed father, but his taste seems rather old-fashioned.” She sauntered over and examined the shoulder of the jacket, and Scorpius tried not to step away from her. “I mean, it’s practically falling to pieces!” And, quick as lightning, she grabbed ahold of the sleeve and tugged it down violently, and a rip formed in the wool sleeve, a gash that looked irreparable by even the most accomplished seamstress.

He was frozen in his surprise and by that time the stepsisters had come over and continued their mother’s cruelties, laughing and guffawing at his inability to fight back as they tore his suit to shreds. They only stopped when the sound of a coach was heard as it pulled into their driveway, and the stepsisters rushed out the door. Their mother lingered, standing over the boy, for he had fallen at some point.

“Why—” he cut off his words with a crack in his throat. “Why are you so _ cruel_?”

“Because I am able to,” was her answer. She leaned down and lifted his chin, an unknown emotion on her lips that terrified him. “You are _not _going to that ball.

"I command it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the term "queer" came around as a word in like the 1300s, but it was used as a slur in the late 1890s (as well as reclaimed in the 1980s by the gays as a form of pride), but this story takes place in the 1850s/1860s based off of the style of the dresses and suits, so I'm ignoring that for story reasons.
> 
> I literally spent like two hours researching this as well as finding out when the Cinderella story (at least the 2015 Disney version) took place so I could be historical accurate just for me to say "I'm ignoring that."


	7. VI - A Magical Aid

It wasn’t until after they had gone, until the sounds of the coach’s wheels couldn’t be heard, that Scorpius moved. And then he suddenly felt like he had to leave, to get out of this suffocating house.

He made it as far as the backyard until his legs couldn’t take it anymore, and he collapsed at his mother’s grave, sobbing uncontrollably. The flowers that usually grew there were withered and dead in the early autumn air.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he told her as he hugged his knees to his chest. “I said I’d have courage but I _ don’t_. And I tried, Mother. I tried! I—I don’t think that the Magic that you spoke of exists, or you and father wouldn’t—and I wouldn’t be alone!” He knew that he was probably incoherent, shouting at this point, but something in him seemed to have shattered, and he couldn’t find it in himself to repair it. “This world takes and it takes, and it _ doesn’t give anything back_. It hurts and it destroys!"

The slab of stone did not reply.

“Oh, I’m being ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. He stood up, wiping his face as he walked down the cobblestone path to the garden. They kept their animals just beyond there, and the funny antics of fuzzy friends always cheered him up.

“Excuse me.”

Scorpius jumped out of his skin as an old man seemed to melt out of the rose bushes that climbed up the house. He had many wrinkles and his hair was long and scraggly, with dirt and leaves tangled into it.

“Oh. Hello,” Scorpius replied warily.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, but could you maybe spare a crust of bread? Mayhaps a spot of milk?”

“I—yes, of course, it’ll be no trouble, I’m sure I can provide you with something.” He rushed back to the house, where he found a jar of milk, half of a loaf of bread and, before quickly heading back outside, grabbed one of the extra winter blankets.

The raggedy man was still sitting where Scorpius had found him, and upon seeing him, the man smiled widely. His teeth were a dark yellow.

“Why thank you, young man,” he said as Scorpius handed him the milk and bread, and his expression was even cheerier as Scorpius handed him the blanket. “And you’ve got me a blanket, how very kind of you.”

“Temperatures have been dropping at night recently,” Scorpius explained. “I wouldn’t want you to be cold.”

The man didn’t seem to hear him, as he had started gulping and slurping down his cup of milk and when it was finished, he started attacking his loaf of bread in the same manner.

“Ah, that’s refreshing,” he said as he swallowed down the last bite. He sat up and said, “Now, we have business to attend to.”

“We do?” Scorpius asked him warily.

“Why of course. _ You _ need to be at that ball, Scorpius.”

Scorpius took a step back and considered running away as far and as fast as possible. “How do you know my name?”

“Well, I thought that was rather obvious.” The old man stood up, grabbing his walking stick and extending both his arms in a sweeping gesture. “I’m your hairy dogmother.” Scorpius blinked, and the man realized his mistake. “I mean fairy godfather. Cousin! We’re cousins. Well, I _ could _ be your fairy _ godbrother _, but I think that title is rather premature now that I say it aloud.” The old man sighed and rubbed his temple with the hand that wasn’t holding his walking stick. “I’m really fucking this up, aren’t I?” Scorpius didn’t reply, but the man kept talking. “Okay, let’s start this over. Hi, I’m taking you to the ball because I’m Magical.”

Scorpius sighed, wondering where the poor old man had toddered from. “I’m sorry to tell you sir, but you can’t be Magical.”

“Oh, and why not?” the man asked, not unkindly.

“Because Magic doesn’t exist?”

Scorpius jumped as the man let out a bark of laughter. “‘Not real.’ Step back.” Scorpius did as he was told. The old man threw his walking stick into the air and, impossibly, it seemed to change, until it was no longer a knobbled stick but a wand, glowing slightly and humming with power. The old man caught it deftly, but he suddenly wasn’t an old man but a young fellow, with pale skin and an extravagant suit that was completely white. The most striking thing about him, however, was his hair, which was a vibrant shade of blue-green that Scorpius had never seen anyone possess before.

“See?” The man waved around his wand and gave a short little bow. “Fairy godbrother. Er—cousin.” he sighed again. “This is confusing. Just call me Teddy.”

“That was… that was incredible.” Scorpius was still rather fixated on the sudden transformation.

“Why thank you.” Teddy bowed again.

“And not to be discourteous, but why is it that you are here?”

“Oh, right!” Teddy didn’t answer his question as he started to peer around the backyard. “Do you own anything that just screams ‘coach’?”

Scorpius watched in amazement as Teddy ran around his back gardens, turning a fat pumpkin in the greenhouse into a regal black carriage, his mice friends into footmen, and a rather temperamental goose into a driver with much grumbling and swearing.

“I can’t fucking drive, I'm a goose!” he exclaimed. “There aren’t even any horses!”

“You won’t need horses,” Teddy assured him. The goose huffed and grumbled some more, but he seemed fine in his seat. Scorpius was surprised as Teddy turned to him. “Now we just need to fix your outfit.”

Scorpius looked down at his clothes, which he hadn’t let himself do until that moment. His coat was ripped to pieces and there were droplets of blood on his shirt and trousers that he supposed had come from the nosebleed that he got after Portia accidentally punched him in the face as she was trying to rip the seams off of the other side of his coat (at least he hoped that it was an accident).

“Do you mind if I make a few… adjustments as I fix it?” Teddy asked as he stepped around the horseless carriage and Scorpius nodded. Teddy thought a bit before pointing his wand at Scorpius who, despite it all, took a wary step back.

He expected a flash of pain along with the bright flash of light, white-hot and humming, but there was only a warm, slightly tickling feeling, like a breath of summer wind in the middle of winter. When the light dissipated, Scorpius resisted the urge to gasp aloud.

He was wearing a suit of such a dark blue that it could have been black, with gleaming shoes of dark leather and fine black gloves. But that wasn’t the most incredible part.

He was wearing a cloak with a high neck, and it clasped at the base of his throat with a heavy piece of metal jewelry that he couldn’t see the design of, which wrapped around his neck and down to the middle of his spine. The fabric of the cloak had some sort of pattern to it; when it shifted in the moonlight, it seemed to reflect the stars. It seemed… magical.

“Oh, you look simply spectacular, one of my best works!” Teddy exclaimed before shooing Scorpius toward the waiting carriage. “Now go, go to the ball, you’re already late.”

One of the mouse footmen stepped up and opened the door, the other one holding out a supporting hand out to help him up the step.

Scorpius gladly took it and was about to step into the carriage, but Teddy let out a loud shriek that made him jump.

“I almost forgot!” He waved his wand, and seemingly nothing happened. Scorpius shot a quizzical look at him. “Now your stepmother and stepsisters won’t recognize you. Now go!” Teddy hurried Scorpius into the carriage, and one of the mouse footmen closed the door behind him, making sure to not get his cloak caught in the door.

“But please remember,” Teddy’s face appeared in the window. “At the last echo of the last bell of the last strike of midnight, my spells will be broken, and all that is will go back to what it once was. Now go!”

The carriage picked up speed, and soon it was thundering down the dirt road toward the city, toward the palace, and hopefully, toward Al.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, sorry it's so much later! I've caught up with my prewritten chapters, and I only have one or two chapters left that are already written, so expect updates to take longer as I write more. Thank you for your patience and lovely comments.


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